


In Every Alternate Universe

by vanceypants



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Fluff, Grinding, M/M, Trans Rich Goranski, expensive headphones, things i write to entertain myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 18:44:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15588324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/pseuds/vanceypants
Summary: “It’s not a fetish, Mikey.  It’s the future.  Get with the program, you blind fuck.”Rich discusses the latest alternate reality he sees himself and Michael inhabiting.  Michael lets himself go along for the ride.





	In Every Alternate Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Some nonsense here, wherein Rich plots out fanfiction ideas to his own boyfriend. Or something. Also this hardly counts as mature, but I guess there's some very mild grinding, so. Be warned I guess.

“Anyways,” Rich says, and flings his hands around so rapidly that Michael nearly drops his bong. He sets it down instead, shushing softly and grabbing his boyfriend’s wrists. Rich isn’t the type to be deterred, though, and tears his hands back. “I need to move them, Mikey, or I can’t talk.”

“What?”

“My hands, bro! I need my hands!”

“Oh. My mistake.”

“Your mistake indeed!” Rich speaks almost exclusively in exclamation marks. Michael smiles faintly, as he takes another slow, bubbling hit. Rich scoots closer, his hands quivering on Michael’s shoulders, as Michael tilts their lips together.

The shared hit warps around their mouths, their tongues, their very airways completely interconnected. Michael feels the universe shift until all he knows, all he is, all he craves is Rich Goranski and his exclamatory lips.

That isn’t saying much, he thinks to himself. How many hours of the day did he spend metaphorically doodling hearts around both of their names, locking them into childish games of tree graffiti love professions, practicing surnames on the scratch pieces of math homework? Every cliche in the book that he’d never summoned before, that maybe he’d always pictured with someone else, but all he can think now is-

Rich’s hands are between Michael’s legs, and Michael breaks their shared hit with a gasp, and a giggling swat at his forearms.

“You need those to talk.”

“I’m talking!” Rich pauses, his brow crinkling as he realizes that, no, he’s very much not talking. “My thoughts were so loud. I thought you heard me.”

“No.”

“Oh. Oh! So!”

Michael curses himself for saying anything, as the heat of Rich’s palms leaves his crotch, instead waving melodies through the air.

“So like, dude, picture this: I’m a robot, right?”

“Okay, this is just like the one you told me last week.”

“No, no no. This is different. Different robot AU. Like, it’s a play on the squip thing.”

The casual offering of the technological word twists Michael’s stomach. He winces, but tries to disguise it by fiddling with his glasses.

“Like, but instead of computer vore, it’s like, computer, uh, body horror? What’s it called...like, where a person gets their body all fucked-”

“That’s called sex.”

“Not fucked-fucked! I mean fucked-fucked up.”

“Um. Body modification?”

“Yeah! That! Body horror, body mod, whatever. Not like, inflation shit or anything. I’m not weird.”

Michael’s expression swells with affection, as his fingers trace the outline of Rich’s arm. “You’re pretty weird.”

“I’m a little weird, dude, but not inflation porn weird. Well...not most of the time. Sometimes, you know. The groin wants what it wants.”

Michael slides his thumb over the veins along the back of Rich’s hand. His heart patters around with the urge to kiss him again, without the interference of mary jane. “What does this have to do with robots?”

“Oh RIGHT! My brilliant plot idea.”

“Mm.”

“Yeah.”

“Here, you need more.”

Rich’s fingers cling to Michael’s wrists, as he steadies the bong for him. The sound is wet and familiar and makes Michael’s mouth water, the pavlovian pipe, drawing reactions without the actual stimulation. 

“So we’re both robo--wait, no, that’s the last week one. New one. I’m in this, like, squip program--squip stands for something else in this, you know.” He waves his finger around, only to bop it playfully against Michael’s nose.

Michael wriggles it just slightly, which causes his glasses to slip down a fraction of an inch. “Of course.”

“Something sciency and cool. But the point of it is, they like, you know, rip you up, give you android features and shit. Or robot features, they’re metallic. Like I probably have a full on metal arm and shit, some weirdo red glowy hologram eye or some shit, like, cool sexy stuff like that.”

“You keep saying ‘sexy’ like a robot uprising wouldn’t be terrifying-”

“-ly sexy, babe! Mikey, seriously. Robots. I’m telling you. Robots. They’re so frickin’ sweet, dude. The fucking sweetest!”

“Almost as sweet as you using ‘frickin’ and ‘fucking’ in the same context.”

“Right? God I’m an endearing motherfucker, you frick.” 

Michael nearly chokes. “Frick?”

“That’s your new petname. I don’t make the rules-”

“As you’re literally making the rules.”

Rich shrugs. “I don’t make the rules about me making the rules.”

Michael considers increasing the loop. The room is foggy with weed and old mixtapes and suddenly he’s kissing him again, hadn’t even realized he’d tipped forward, but Rich still tastes like daydreams and sunsets and orange dreamsicles, and Michael hadn’t realized how hard he was able to smile while pressed against another person.

Rich blinks at him, tugging off Michael’s glasses and slipping them onto his own face. Michael’s world edges into colors and shapes, and he doesn’t bother protesting as Rich pushes on him until he’s laying flush against his beanbag chair.

Rich crawls onto his body, laughing faintly. “Dude. You see like this?”

“Most days, yeah.”

Rich centers their hips, grinding against him casually. Michael’s cock stirs at the contact, though it’s a lazy sort of arousal. “So,” Rich shivers. “I’m like, robo-Rich. And there’s probably all kinds of perks with it, right?”

“With being a robot?”

“Yeah. Or why else would people sign up, right?”

“Because they have a robot fetish.”

“It’s not a fetish, Mikey. It’s the future. Get with the program, you blind fuck.”

“I’d be less blind if you gave me back my glasses.”

“I meant blind to progress. But okay.” 

The glasses switch positions once more, Rich’s hands lingering against Michael’s cheeks after they’ve been returned. Michael’s sudden sharp focus locks onto Rich’s lips, as they spill forward yet again.

They lose track of time, and of their own boundaries, as they roll against the basement floor. Michael finds himself on top of Rich--how had he gotten on top of Rich?--as Rich smiles cockily up at him, as though Michael doesn’t have a hold of both of his wrists, pinned up above his head.

Apparently he didn’t need them so badly to talk after all, as he begins to pant a continuation, even as Michael starts to rut against him.

“So, ah, so I’m this fucking robot bully, probably tormenting you left and right, but then something happens and we have to team up, or maybe I’m broken or something, and you have to fix me and...ah...fuck, we need to get naked like, yesterday.”

“Yeah.”

Michael slips Rich’s shirt off over his head, passing briefly over his binder in the process. He leans forward, sucking on Rich’s bottom lip, as Rich’s hands work over his hoodie. Michael laughs breathlessly, as Rich’s fingers briefly dance over the pudge of his stomach, nuzzling their noses for one affectionate moment.

“So I fix your broken parts?” Michael says, as Rich begins tugging off his jeans.

“Yeah,” Rich smiles, a haze of pink crossing his face. His voice comes out smaller. “You know. Like, uh, it’s canon, right? Even though it’s some alternate reality, that’s like...that’s just the way it goes.”

There must have been something in the marijuana laced air, because Michael’s certain his eyes are watering. 

“Bro! I didn’t even get to the uprising part or the epic third act conclusion. You can’t cry now!”

“I’m not,” Michael cradles him in his arms. “You’re just...it’s a good story, Rich.”

Rich’s grin is loud and technicolor vibrant, as he bites the tip of his tongue in his glee. “Yeah,” He finally says. “I’m pretty fucking great.”

Michael can’t offer an argument to that.


End file.
